


Not Just for Christmas

by Gement



Series: Kryptonite Collar by Red Starlight [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is Not a Quitter, Evil Superman, Honor Kink, Implied Major Character Death (Offscreen), M/M, No Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, The Justice League Has a Bad Day, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement
Summary: Bruce Wayne made certain commitments when he decided to give Superman a chance.(What-If for the Kryptonite Collar series. Atrocity is nonspecific. Perhaps this is a story Bruce makes up for himself to deal with the night terrors.)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Kryptonite Collar by Red Starlight [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656628
Comments: 23
Kudos: 58





	Not Just for Christmas

Bruce watched the security footage, heard the screams. He did not vomit, but only due to long practice. He shut down the Batcomputer and gave himself the luxury of a full minute staring at the dark monitors. Then he went to the vault, got what he needed, and let Alfred know he was leaving. He explained briefly in writing, pencil on paper. The old man hugged him, a rare intimacy from his dearest friend. Twenty-five minutes from the first alert, the Batwing darted toward its destination.

He stood in a gravel parking lot near the Metropolis waterfront, barefaced, empty-handed. The collar was open, looped around his belt. The control was strapped to his wrist. He breathed the evening air.

"Clark," he said. "You know where to find me."

Nothing. After a few minutes, he sat down on a concrete block to wait. After an hour, he said it again. Another hour, the dusk fading to dark twilight blue, again.

A shift on the breeze. He looked up. Superman hovered above him at about a twenty meter radius. He was still filthy with soot and blood, pale streaks of tear tracks down his face. "You think I'll just come when you call?" he shouted down. His voice had a hard edge to it, ice and iron.

"I waited for you, didn't I?" Bruce felt the deep calm of inevitability. "I hoped we could talk, Clark."

"You hoped I could walk into whatever trap you've come up with this time."

"No trap. You've known me for a long time. You know when I'm lying, or even twisting the truth. There is no trap. I am unarmed. My only strategy today is this conversation."

"Unarmed." Superman's lip curled, and he gestured at the collar on Bruce's hip. "I don't call that unarmed."

"Even if I could force or trick you into it again, I wouldn't. You wear it freely or not at all. I promise."

"If you're trying to seduce me, your house would have been more effective."

Bruce fought down the fear in his throat. "And involve the kids? Alfred? I'll only risk myself, Clark. I've never brought them in on any contingency plans, and there's nothing to be used against you in the basement anymore except for the sun lamps."

"There _are_ contingency plans."

"Of course there are. But they're delegated. I am inessential and, at this point, uninformed. I started taking myself out of the loop after the first time we met here. If you blast me to atoms, all that will change is that you will be alive and I will be dead."

A silent staring contest. Finally, Clark said, "I thought you'd go to ground."

"Postponing the inevitable in exchange for giving up my one chance to help you? Not my style, Clark."

" _Help_ me." Clark laughed. It was a distant, alien sound. "How are you so incredibly arrogant? How do you even stay standing under that much hubris?"

"Hubris would be believing this'll work. I don't believe anything. I will be equally unsurprised if you come to me, or leave me a pile of ash, or carry me off to decorate your imperial ice palace. I'm in your hands, Clark."

Another silence.

"Is the failsafe on?" Clark's voice was still flat.

"No. Do you want it to be?"

"No."

A gust of wind buffeted Bruce's face. Clark was down on one knee at his feet, head bowed, a classical illustration of Sir Gawain wrapped in primary colors and the grime of battle. Bruce's heart broke a little further. "You choose this freely?"

"Yes."

Bruce snapped the collar around his neck and rested a hand on his hair. "Thank you, Clark. You're good."

He pressed the button for maximum aperture and made himself watch as Clark collapsed, seizing and drooling. He counted ten seconds. Then he dialed it down to the highest maintenance setting he dared, stuck a biometric patch to Clark's back, and got him into the plane.

* * *

Clark woke to red light and the stink of smoke. After a moment he remembered his icy rage, a logic so cold it burned, their faces as he — He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. It didn't help.

"You were supposed to make it stop," he whispered.

"I did," Bruce said. "You're in no position to hurt anyone."

"You were supposed to make it _stop_. Go away. End it." He was sobbing.

"And if that turns out to be necessary, I will see it through. I accept that responsibility. I'll be there for you. But it's not my first choice."

Clark curled up on the bed, bawling. "S'posed to stop." He was crying too hard to breathe. "So I don't have to remember."

"That would be easier, I know. I'm sorry. Would you like me to come in?"

"No."

After a while, when Clark's throat was sore and his head ached and he ran out of energy for grief, he finally opened his eyes. Bruce sat watching him through glass, but not in the narrow observation corridor of the cave cell. It was a full-sized room, and Bruce was sitting on a full-sized bed with real pillows, wearing a black t-shirt.

Clark took stock. His own bed was queen-sized, and his cell larger enough to match. A small shelf unit stood by the bed, and a movable privacy screen in front of the toilet. The floor had a tile pattern, which stretched all the way from his side to Bruce's without interruption, barely hiccuping at the barrier. Bruce's side had a comfortable looking chair and a reading lamp.

"You've been remodeling." Clark could feel the arctic strangeness behind his eyes, letting him step away from the pain enough to hold a conversation.

"We're not at the house. Not only does no one know we're here, I'm the only one in the world who knows where here is. I've notified the league that you're contained, but that's all."

"The league." However much of it was left. He'd been so angry.

"Do you want the list?" Bruce's voice was far too gentle, after what he'd done.

"Not yet."

"You have a panic button, in the corner under the toilet. If you hold it for at least ten seconds, three times in a row, you'll get a voice line to the league, which will give them your location. If I have a stroke, you won't starve. You have an option other than me, at any time, for any reason."

How could Bruce be so calm, or so kind? How could Bruce not want him dead? "Why aren't you angry?"

Bruce looked him in the eye. Oh. Never mind.

"Okay, sorry, why are you . . ." He waved a hand at the space. "Instead of ending it. Or staking me out in the sun with the collar at full blast to see how long it takes." Why pass up a chance for data collection, after all, when presented with a test subject who had thrown away the right to humane treatment?

"Because you're my responsibility," Bruce said. "I've been carrying the moral weight of this possibility since I set you free. A ten percent chance of you grabbing this planet in your jaws and shaking it like a dead rat, and I put you back on the streets. It's always seemed like a great injustice to me that when a poorly trained animal bites someone, it's the dog that's punished, not the irresponsible owner."

"I am an adult sentient being," Clark said levelly from his cold place, "and you don't own me."

"No, I don't. But I own the decision I made. I also own building a relationship with you strong enough to bring you down after a killing spree. Which is . . ." Bruce shook his head. "I am honored, Clark. And humbled. And it gives me hope that there still might be options other than death. Options worth talking about."

"I should be put down."

"Maybe." Bruce rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted. "There are two changes of clothes in the drawer. If you send your suit and that top sheet out through the delivery slot, I'll wash them for you."

"I don't deserve to wear this."

"That's up to you. I . . . have three sleeping options here. This bed, your bed, and one in shouting distance if you want more privacy. Whichever works best for you, I'll be passing out soon."

"You could fall asleep in arm's reach of _this_?"

"I am that tired. And you had your chance."

"Wherever." Clark rolled over to face the wall, numb.

Bruce sighed. "Good night, Clark."

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to the '80s responsible pet adoption slogan, "A dog is for life, not just for Christmas."
> 
> Once more, this was a What-If. I will not be writing further along this branch of the timeline, though you're welcome to.


End file.
